His might bloom, as a green thing will, or wilt
with weather or the market’s temperament.
He’s your trader, he’s your brother, or not
your brother if you’re nodding there slouched
on a cardboard flat beside the bookstore.
Food, or coke, or weed, in that case, or sex,
as his is the green roughage of money.
And hers, who keeps pace with him, power-blue
suit, Hermes silk, gym shoes, orating air,
is likely money, too. And hers—“Buddy,
this girl gets up early [pause] for no man . . .”
—is renegotiating family ties.
As all along the walk heads are bobbing,
ears planted with their tiny buds, one, two
per head sometimes, row on row of fertile
dreaming (hers, lunch—his, who knows—his, dancing
a funky two-step in a hat, says, grinning,
“exercise”). As what may grow is a field
of hopes, given water, given sun: this
cold city set to dreaming, given time,
given money, or just a hint of song.